Champagne Supernova Consummation
by Indecisively Yours
Summary: AU. They could blame it all on the excessive amounts of alcohol. Then again, they were in Vegas. Yet maybe, just maybe, this would be one of those unavoidable things in life. It was bound to happen sometime.


Author's Note: _Hello there, readers! I know it's been forever and a half, or so it seems, but I've decided to attempt to re-write this and see where it goes. Hopefully it goes far. Fingers crossed that it happens. Inspiration has been a bit lacking lately; here's to the muse finally working for once. As always, feedback is appreciated. Yes, things have been tweaked. Here's to life and things and everything else. _

* * *

I

* * *

The sun shines on her face, peeking through the blinds. Quinn groans, head pounding more and more by the second.

The taste of alcohol lingers in her mouth, like aftertaste to cold medicine. She tries to swallow but her throat is dry and she's parched.

Water—she needs water. Her thoughts finally sync with her body as she approaches consciousness.

She can't get up. There's a weight partially atop her, warmth behind her, and she's kept in place.

Turning to see what's keeping her in place, she ends up face to face with the last thing she'd ever expect to see: Puck.

Things start falling into place for her as she takes in her surroundings. He's naked. Not like 'oh-hey-I'm-asleep-in-boxers' but completely in the nude.

She panics, eyes wide, scream stuck in her throat. Pressing her eyes closed, she chants to herself: _I'm dreaming; I'm dreaming; I'm dreaming. _

The only way she would ever wake up next to him would be in a dream—or a nightmare.

* * *

When she opens her eyes again, he's gone. She breathes a sigh of relief.

Slowly, she wakes and sits up in bed. The brightness of the room makes her eyes hurt and the haze inside of her mind doesn't help her remember how she reached this state.

The alcohol induced haze fogs her mind. She can't recall how she got into bed or why she's naked. She peeks over her side of the bed, seeing her clothes all about the floor in a haphazard manner.

The noise coming from the opposite side of the room suddenly stops. She looks over and spots a closed door. As the doorknob turns and the door opens, she quickly hides under the comforters.

"Oh, good, you're awake," a voice says. "Santana wants us downstairs in a few. Sam said she's nursing a killer hangover just like the rest of us, and you're our best bet at making sure she doesn't bite our heads off."

She knows that voice. Just a few hours ago, she remembers yelling at that voice. It's the same voice that whispered in her ear, telling her to loosen up.

"Puck_._"

Her eyes widen as she meets his, head appearing from under the covers. He stands in front of the door—towel hanging dangerously low on his hips—glancing about the room.

"Morning to you, too. Have you seen my pants? I don't remember where you threw them."

"Pants…?" The fact that he's naked under that towel and—oh, Lord—she's naked under the comforter makes her hug it closer to her body. "Just get out of here, you perv! Doesn't your own room have a shower?"

He chuckles, smirk present on his face. "Seriously? After last night, I thought you would have had a change of heart." He turns back to search for his pants. Just as he finds them, he slowly turns back to her. "You do remember last night, don't you?"

"Aside from me trying to get you to stop hitting on me?" she asks in return.

"I mean after that," he says. "When we came back here and had sex."

That renders her speechless—well, it almost does. "W-we didn't have sex last night," she manages to say.

"Oh really?" he asks, jeans in hand, eyebrow cocked, smirk still on his face. "I mean, I may lie about a lot of things, but sex ain't one of them."

With her chin held up high and the comforter wrapped tighter she adamantly says, "We did not have sex last night."

"What makes you so sure of that?" he retorts.

"Well…" She observes him, looks around for anything that could be used as a quick excuse to back up her claim. She finds something that could be useful to her. On his left hand, she spots a silver wedding band. "You're married," she states.

He laughs at her, and doesn't seem to stop laughing. She can't help but notice the fact that if he keeps on laughing, that towel could come right off. She blames the alcohol for these thoughts.

"Nice one, Q. Don't you mean _you're_ married?" he counters. He points at her hand to emphasize his point.

Confusion floods her mind. "I'm not—" she begins to say, looking down at her hand. She stops, however, once she sees it.

A shiny, silver band located on her fourth finger, left hand.

That certainly wasn't there the night before.

Of all the things, she would have remembered getting married last night.

Looking up at him, she sees the same confused expression on his face. Her eyes linger down to his finger. The ring matches hers.

"Oh, crap," she mutters under her breath.

The math isn't too complex to realize what this means.


End file.
